Issue One, Poetry Fangs

A Glosa For Leonard Cohen

By Sarah James

My time is running out

and still

I have not sung

the true song, the great song

                                ~Leonard Cohen

The full moon rises
light casting shadows
on cedar and stone
The reflections of past lives
blurred in leaf strewn puddles
Children splashing, their innocence devout
I lift my head towards the sky
eyes closed, a silent prayer to the beauty
It may be ageless, but there is no doubt
My time is running out
 
It’s raining in America
False kings storming heaven
singing Hallelujah to any who will listen
A temple built on power, desire
hunger for lost things now banished and buried
The crusaders will surely get their thrill
Sacrifices at the flame, witches burned and named
The ashes of those belittled and maimed
It’s a cauldron bound to spill
and still
 
It’s not the courage I’m lacking
I’ve a longing, that is true
A soul softened by heartache of the ages
the eyes of G-D whose light illuminates
even the darkest corner of the room
No, these hymns they’re still quite young
dancing in the shadows of our ancestors
This hunger at the empty table remains
even after the final bell has rung
I have not sung
 
This mirror, she’s a liar, a tease
We’re not bound by flesh, but free
The teacher is the student is the teacher is me
an apparition, mistaken identity
Hungry ghosts with cornucopias at our feet
I beg of you, Lord, please don’t get me wrong
It’s been an honour to plant seeds at the hearth
But I’ve come full circle, there’s none left but to depart
This place in which all voices belong
The true song, the great song